


Moments in Heat

by TelepathJeneral



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, PWP, Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 10:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13832211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelepathJeneral/pseuds/TelepathJeneral
Summary: This is the explicit portion of another fic, "Alike in More Ways than One". To avoid messing with the rating there, this portion is being posted separately.





	Moments in Heat

The  _Executrix_  is a military ship. Her design is entirely functional, her shape an exact copy of her sisters across the galaxy. Each line and divot is clearly etched, with the purpose of the Empire behind it. She exists as an extension of Tarkin himself, his design propelling her onward, and she has become his second home. As such, when Tarkin is out of place, so is the  _Executrix_ , her angles and projections standing at odd angles to the flow of a planet. It is never enough to prevent Tarkin from being effective—where would the logic be in making his ship prohibitive to his functioning—but he can see how her tilt is off, the balance skewed. Appropriate, here in the space above Geonosis. The planet itself feels wrong, and Tarkin is grimly pleased to find that the  _Executrix_  seems to share his feelings.

“They are not engineers, barely even architects. They are a productive labor force, nothing more.”

“The input of the Geonosians should not be ignored. They have designed, built, produced effective machines for generations. It’s possible that—”

“I do not need  _counsel_ from a tribalistic group of impulse-driven chitinous insects!” Behind Tarkin, at the conference table, Orson Krennic slams a fist against the smooth surface of the table. Tarkin cannot stop himself from wincing at the noise, even as he stands at the viewport of the orbital platform.

“They have worked well for us so far. They’ve improved on aspects of the design, when applicable. They are, despite your assumptions, technically minded creatures. Even if they aren’t human, they have some capacity for the engineering involved.” Admiral Yukzari seems to have no reaction in the wake of Krennic's outburst, his tone even and calm. “I would return to our earlier discussions about incorporating their ideas into the Star Destroyer fleets—”

“We’ve already tabled that discussion. You seem to support these Geonosians quite heartily, Yukzari, but you cannot allow your favoritism to grant them too many favors.” An older man nods, rubbing at a temple. “If we place all our plans in their holding, we risk betrayal and theft. Geonosis is not an Imperial stronghold planet, and it never will be. Security is our first priority, no matter what the project.”

“Once security is assured, should we not pursue innovation? Advancement is necessary if we are to keep the fleet up-to-date, and we cannot ignore advancements simply because we do not  _like_  where they come from.” Yukzari looks pointedly to Krennic, earning merely a shake of the head. “They’ve given us the plans for this battle station, provided the outlines for its use—”

“The plans for this battle station are a gift from the Emperor himself, and no one else.” Darth Vader, hidden in the shadows of the room, speaks firmly to cut through the attention of the assembled generals and administrators. “Keep this in mind when assigning credit.”

“We would never assume otherwise, Lord Vader, but there remains the question of details.  _Details_  are where the problems lie. And details are where these Geonosians seek to undermine our plans.” Krennic stands, folding his arms as he faces the table. “The design for energy relays—and the transfer units, as it happens—are ready to be implemented. The production is simple enough. If we ignore the repeated entreaties of the workforce, we can proceed quickly enough. Speed, time is of the essence. We have a design, we have a schedule of work, there is no need to entertain meaningless distractions—”

“You would claim everything as a distraction, Director Krennic.” Tarkin turns at last, facing the table from his position in the corner. This entire meeting has been less formal than others, despite Krennic’s posturing, and Tarkin feels no discomfort in avoiding his seat at the table. “I’m sure the Empire is grateful for your attention and dedication, but you cannot ignore security concerns. There is a  _reason_  for calling these meetings. You are the overseer of the construction, yes, but there is more to this station than its mere construction.”

“Without the station’s construction, there isn’t anything more to consider, Grand Moff—” Krennic turns, facing Tarkin more fully, and Tarkin raises a hand to cut him off.

“The Geonosians deserve your consideration. However—” Tarkin ignores Krennic’s tension, turning instead to Yukzari. “Their input is not necessarily better merely because they have produced good work in the past. Beirann is correct: the Geonosians are accessories to Imperial aims, not the main focus. Our work would be easier if they were more loyal to our goals, but they have been useful. They have their place. It is time you acknowledge yours.”

Krennic draws himself up to his full height, already composing a retort, but movement from the opposite corner manages to arrest his abortive statement. Darth Vader moves forward, drawing close to the table, and reaches forward to grasp the back of an empty chair with one hand.

“We waste our time here. The station is being built: this is our first priority. Director Krennic, you have your duties in coordinating it, but you are also required to consider the needs of your equals. Construction, security, supply, coordination—these are all issues you need to consider. Listen to external opinions and do not allow your own position to cloud your judgement.”

Krennic scowls, facing Vader, but he can say nothing to the face of the Emperor’s representative. Tarkin watches, quietly amused as the rest of the table looks down to their notes, and finally the group stands as one to begin leaving. Granted, this meeting had been more casual, and there is no need to have a formal dismissal. But even Krennic makes no defense as he gathers up his reports, striding quickly from the room to have his cape flutter out behind him. Within the space of only a few minutes, Tarkin and Vader are left alone, and Tarkin reaches out to rest his arms against the back of a chair to mirror Vader’s posture. In the viewport behind them, Geonosis looms, weighty and bloated, and Tarkin studies the red-tinged light as it spills across the table.

“Krennic makes much of himself.” Tarkin finally says, tapping a fingernail against the edge of his chair.

“It is good that we have someone with the strength of presence to insist on the correctness of his own position. It is only a shame he insists on bringing that into each meeting.” Vader focuses not on the table, but on the planet outside, his mask inscrutable in the muted light. “He wearies you.”

Tarkin wrinkles his nose, waving a hand dismissively. “It isn’t a concern.”

“You know the Emperor’s plans for you. If Krennic is more trouble than he’s worth—”

“He has his place. My personal opinions should not determine his utility to the Empire.”

Vader is quiet for a moment, then he releases his chair and moves to stand beside Tarkin at the opposite side of the table. Tarkin does not move or shift, but he can feel how his attention is drawn to the presence beside him, the lure of Vader tangible even with only minimal conversation.

“This kind of meeting is useless for you. I can sense it as well as anyone.”

“Krennic is not  _wrong_. His concern for his work is admirable. But he does not understand the purpose of the station.”

“Which is why he will not be commanding it.”

Tarkin shakes his head, turning to release the chair. “He is not a commander. He should never have been considered.”

“He believes himself capable.”

“Director Orson Krennic believes himself capable of many things. That doesn’t mean that he  _is_.” Tarkin bares his teeth in a half-snarl, prompting Vader to fold his arms. “This isn’t a question of my personal wants or needs. If the Emperor would want me elsewhere, I would gladly go elsewhere. But Krennic, and the others—they complicate matters with opinions and debates and meetings. And I simply have to stand by and  _wait_  until real progress is made.”

Vader reaches up, placing a hand on Tarkin’s shoulder to squeeze gently. “You were not built for this. Negotiations and consultations are unnecessary to your methods.”

Tarkin exhales slowly. “Sometimes I believe you and the Emperor overestimate my capacity.”

“Never.”

“My  _patience_ , then. To be dragged here for Krennic’s concerns, when we could just as easily have these meetings on Coruscant, or leave me out of them entirely—”

“Shall I make it up to you?” Vader interrupts, his grip on Tarkin’s shoulder tightening. Tarkin pauses, surprised by the shift in Vader’s attention, and he tilts his head incrementally to one side to consider the question.

“You’re not often this bold.”

“Our recent conversations have reminded me of why we first began meeting like this. Our common elements, our similar approaches. And at times, it is simpler to pursue the things I want.”

Tarkin can feel himself smiling, the phrase reminding him of another conversation. “So you do have desires of your own.”

Vader shifts, lowering his hand. “Your presence may be required here on Geonosis for several days. But there is nothing to say that a few hours couldn’t be spent…elsewhere.”

“Ah, yes. We’re close to Tatooine out here, aren’t we.” Tarkin muses, turning to face Vader. However, his knowing smile fades as Vader shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t take you to Tatooine.”

“I would relish the opportunity.”

“I have no  _need_  to return to Tatooine.” Vader reaches up again, this time able to touch the tip of Tarkin’s chin. “I would take you to Mustafar.”

Tarkin blinks in surprise, stepping back from Vader’s hand. “Mustafar. Really.”

“It is easier to show than to explain.”

Tarkin pauses, thinking over the proposition for a long moment. Yes, he’s been forced to contend with these issues, the problem of ‘Stardust’, for months now without relief. His duties near Seswenna, the management of his ship, his own personal needs and the administration of governorship—these have been sidelined, though never ignored. Tarkin knew that the Emperor’s appointment would not be an easy one. Why else would he have chosen Tarkin? But dealing with Krennic’s irritation, facing the hesitation and prevarication of Yukzari, untangling the meddling of Tagge and the banking clans, is all too exhausting. And now Vader is here, on what is theoretically a “status report”, offering to take Tarkin away from it all.

“I presume you have a shuttle prepared.” Tarkin says quietly, lowering his voice. Vader nods.

“I can send you its location.”

“I have preparations to make. Reports to file. But I will accept your invitation, Vader, and look forward to our conversation.” Reaching up, Tarkin clasps Vader’s shoulder, holding them both there for a heartbeat before moving past him.

The entire interaction is muted, like the light from Geonosis above. Tarkin tries not to focus on the ramifications of Vader’s offer—an offer, not a request—and instead begins listing his priorities. His ship will need maintenance, and he’ll need a lieutenant or two to review his reports from this last round of meetings. Perhaps it would be fruitful to schedule a private conference with Beirann, confirm the security measures in place around Krennic’s optimistic plans; as deplorable as it might be, Tarkin could even be persuaded to meet with the Geonosians himself (though this is truly Krennic’s responsibility, really, the man could swallow his pride for a few minutes to at least  _listen_  to the creatures). His roster will be full of duties and responsibilities. His staff are loyal, diligent, and resourceful, but he is still their commander. They still require some guidance.

_But_ , once those orders are set in place, once his expectations are made clear…he can leave. A few hours of effort, a few missives sent, a few last directives put in place, and he can  _leave_. With Vader, nonetheless, an opportunity for undivided attention and reciprocal admiration.

It’s almost enough for him to overlook the menace of Mustafar as their eventual destination.

+++

As expected, the minutiae of command are quickly dealt with, and Tarkin finds his way to Vader’s shuttle with little difficulty. The take-off, the exit, even the handling of access codes are simple and easy, leaving the two of them to depart the Geonosis system without delay.

For it is only the two of them. Vader is piloting the shuttle himself, as Tarkin has come to expect, and the tedium of hyperspace travel means that Tarkin is required to do very little. Instead, he is able to simply sit back and watch, entranced by the quick movements and instinctual knowledge of Vader’s piloting. He wouldn’t call it ‘beautiful’, but there is a pleasing rhythm to the efficiency of Vader’s movements.

“You know that ‘Stardust’ has value. The Emperor would be the first to remind you of the necessity for the station.”

“Considering I made the arguments to him in the first place, I would be flattered to hear them again.” Tarkin drums his fingers on the co-pilot’s chair. “Do you expect to use it yourself?”

“It will be a battle station. The Emperor will likely expect me to use it as such. I would prefer not to use it as a flagship—it seems impractical for that—but it will be a source of firepower the galaxy has not yet seen.” Vader offers a half-shrug as he checks an instrument reading, settling back in his own seat.

“You will retain the  _Executor_.”

“Of course. I will be disappointed to see you give up the  _Executrix_ , when the time comes.”

Tarkin shrugs, shifting in his chair. “To move from a Star Destroyer to a battle station of that caliber—it is hardly a sacrifice.”

Vader turns, glancing to Tarkin for the first time. “The  _Executrix_  is more versatile. More agile. Less…stationary.”

“I won’t be able to meet you on a moment’s notice, yes? Consider this: at least you’ll always know where to find me.” Tarkin smiles gently, grinning as Vader’s hands pause in their movements. “It won’t be so bad. I may even have larger quarters.”

“Your quarters are perfectly acceptable as they are.” Vader says, almost as an aside, and Tarkin simply hums to himself as they revert back to real space. The angry light of Mustafar is visible immediately, a dull red and black against the darkness of the vacuum, and Tarkin leans forward to watch as they begin their descent. There is no air traffic to navigate here, meaning that Tarkin barely needs to check his own instruments as Vader takes them down. Mining platforms are visible here and there, tiny spires against lava flows and rock outcroppings, but it isn’t until they rise over a mountainous ridge that an enormous black tower is visible. Tarkin sits up in attention, at once entranced and amazed by the majesty of the thing, and he studies it in careful appreciation as the shuttle nears its landing platform.

“This is it.” Tarkin nods, speaking as much to himself as to Vader. “I’d forgotten—this is  _the place_. I’d seen the plans, there’s references in notes—I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

Vader is quiet, setting the shuttle down with only a cursory nod. “It is a fortress. A monument. It embodies my own purpose and the Emperor’s will, just as everything we’ve built aspires to.”

“It’s  _incredible_.” Tarkin is thrumming, imbued with a new energy, and he leaves the shuttle without waiting for Vader to lead him forward. The air is hot and stifling, robbing the air from Tarkin’s lungs, but he ignores such minor irritants to study the scope of the building. It is unlikely that Vader brought him here to study architecture, but Tarkin can still appreciate the raw aesthetics of the thing. It has an appeal, and it deserves appreciation.

“It’s the Citadel all over again.” Tarkin can barely stop himself, moving forward as Vader rushes to keep pace. “The outcroppings, the angles there—this is the Jedi prison. This is the twisted imagination of a Seperatist warlord turned to our Emperor’s purposes. To think that it would give us  _this—_ ”

“I didn’t realize.” Vader says quietly, the main door opening to admit them with barely a sound. “You must still have memories of the place, your time there—“

“ _Please_.” Tarkin waves a hand in dismissal, studying now the interior design of the grand entry. “I may have been tortured, but you’ll remember that I saw the beauty of the Citadel even then. Oh, I’ll admit, it isn’t  _entirely_  the same. But it’s visible, if you know what to look for.”

Vader says nothing as they continue walking, the entry giving way to a larger audience chamber with extended viewports along one side. Tarkin notes the lack of railings, the severe drop into what must be lava (or is intended to look like such, given the glow). Power is etched on every wall, every facet of the building, and Tarkin can feel the affirmation of his own position as if the Emperor himself were offering his praise. Though Tarkin knows Vader is near—his presence is hard to ignore—he slows to watch the view outside the viewport, the pulsing lava of the landscape outside as the castle stands, immobile, in its midst.

“The Emperor designed this for you. It breathes menace, it  _is_  menace.” Tarkin shudders, absorbed by the motion of the lava. “This is incredible.”

“The Emperor had say in its design. But I oversaw the construction.”

Tarkin nods, realizing the scope of this building. “I can feel it. You know, it’s a skill—” Tarkin’s brain is leaping between topics, absorbed by the ramifications of the architecture. He reaches up to gesture vaguely, making reference to topics he half-remembers from years past. “There’s the lizard hind-brain that says this is fear. Prisons look the same across human worlds for this reason, because we hate the immobility of it all. There is dread, there is horror, there is the immense weight of fear. All designed for this singular purpose.”

“As was I.” Vader says, stepping forward to catch Tarkin’s attention. “My armor was built with the same view as this place. A creature, a place, of terror and fear.”

“Of course.” Tarkin turns, studying Vader with careful attention. “Remember that I have only mentioned the lizard hind-brain so far. Instinct is good, and natural, but it isn’t the only thing that exists. Those ruled entirely by instinct will never see the full beauty of this place.”

Vader watches, quiet for a long moment, then turns sharply to continue their walk. Tarkin moves behind him, watching the Sith Lord move through the halls of his own palace. As they leave the audience chamber, entering a hall with lower ceilings and less light, a figure appears in a doorway, invisible expect for his pale face.

“My Lord.” The figure bows deeply, but Vader slows only partially to acknowledge the deference.

“Your assistance is not required, Vaneé. Return to your other duties.”

“Of course.” The figure bows again, but does not turn, looking instead to Tarkin. “You have no stormtroopers. No formal escort—”

“I have no need of them.” Vader extends a hand, flicking the tips of his fingers in the lowest form of dismissal. Vaneé hesitates, but finally nods, turning to disappear back down his hallway. Tarkin says nothing, though his curiosity is piqued, and merely follows as Vader leads him up a twisting, turning labyrinth of ramps. Finally, the light of the hallways changes, and Vader draws Tarkin into a larger room before finally coming to a stop.

The lights echo the dynamics of Vader’s meditation orb. Machinery and droid arms are lit from below, lending them a dramatic air, and Tarkin can only identify half of the parts visible. There is a low table, elevated on one end like a couch, and an empty bacta tank sits in the corner. A series of droid arms, spindly and thin like the arms of an interrogation droid, rises from an illuminated pit like a tentacled beast, and Tarkin finds himself with nothing to say as he begins to understand the scope of the room.

“It will take some time. The processes are not the quickest. You may not—” Vader pauses, his hand tightening convulsively. Tarkin reaches out to touch Vader’s elbow, unsure of what his role is in the heart of this place.

“If you’re sure about this, I can wait.”

“There is not usually an audience for this. I doubt anyone knows of this place.” Vader remains staring forward, taking in the dimensions of the room.

“I’ve said before, there is no need to go through something you’d rather not—”

“I  _want_  to.” Vader inhales sharply, his respirator adjusting for the new tempo. “The process can be done. And you’d asked about it. About this.”

Tarkin thinks for a moment, lowering his hand before moving to face Vader more fully. “Let me help you with the helmet—”

“ _No_.” Vader squares his shoulders, resisting the urge to shout. “It—the medical arms will take care of it anyway, there’s no need for you to concern yourself with it.”

Tarkin says nothing, and he conceals his concern with a simple nod. Finally, after a long moment of stalemate, Vader moves past Tarkin to awaken the medical droids, stepping into the embrace of the droid arms to feel the first movements of their attention.

From the outside, there is little to see. The droids are self-contained, working in their own world, and Vader doubts there is anything visible through the layers of machinery and medical equipment. The helmet, as always, is first, the cool air rushing over his scalp, and the weight of his chestplate is lifted off as the various hookups are disconnected. The pain is quick and sharp, unnoticed by him after all these years of repetition, and Vader closes his eyes to focus merely on breathing as the tunic is undone, the gloves and boots whisked away, and the padding around his legs and arms is unwrapped layer by layer. The entire process is done in silence—there is nothing for him to say, nothing worth hearing in this, but he does have to reach out to halt some of the processes before they finish. Normally, the droids would dress him for the bacta tank, but Vader assumes manual control to guide them through an altered version of the finishing routines.

Even with this minimal preparation, there are items that need his consideration. The tubes that pierce his side, the altered mouthpiece that covers his mouth and nose, all bound together in a lighter fabric cling wound around his torso. It is inconvenient and sloppy, but in the end, it’s better than nothing. And so it is that Vader finally emerges from the droids’ embrace to stumble against the nearby console.

Tarkin is an afterthought—Vader’s primary concern is the new sensation in his arms and legs, the sensitivity of his skin reminding him of what the open air means for him. His feedbacks are uneven, the prosthetics providing only vague sensations while his remaining arm is both on fire and prickling with chill simultaneously. Usually Vaneé is here for this, leading him to the tank, but this is different.  _Everything_  is different. Vader forces himself to breathe, tasting the oxygen of the smaller mouthpiece, and it is Tarkin who moves forward to try and offer assistance.

“Lord Vader.” Tarkin’s voice is quiet, almost inaudible, and Vader reaches out to grasp Tarkin’s shoulder to regain his balance. Already, his concern is creeping back in, and Vader can feel the edges of where his body—his real body, his biological body—segues into the replacement parts of prosthetics. Never mind that his real skin is already beginning to complain, unaccustomed to the exposure; Vader nods toward the table and begins to move toward it, Tarkin doing his best to provide support as they move in tandem.

Fortunately, once Vader is seated, the confusion about his legs seems to subside. It is easier to catch his breath, and he finally realizes that Tarkin is watching silently, his face expressionless. Vader tries to think of something appropriate to say, something in explanation or an attempt at seduction, but nothing comes. There is too much else for him to consider right now.

“There is a container beneath the table. It helps—” Vader simply nods, watching as Tarkin moves around the table to locate the container specified. As Tarkin moves, Vader shifts back against the table, lifting his legs up in order to lay along the table and assess his situation.

The prosthetics respond. They, at least, are never in doubt. But even if Tarkin cannot tell, Vader can see the seams where the false skin meets his own, the unnatural regularity of synthetic skin covering mere machine. The real skin of his upper thighs is pale and taut, still marked with the edges of old scars, and Vader can trace the patterns of scar tissue up his torso until they disappear beneath his sling, the cloth concealing the bare minimum to keep him alive.

He hopes desperately that Tarkin doesn’t ask about the sling. For a man so elegantly suited to higher forms of romance, the intimate details of the biological regulators might kill any romantic inclinations Tarkin still retains.

As Tarkin reappears, moving to the side of the table, Vader tries to understand what the other man is thinking. Tarkin hasn’t said anything beyond Vader’s name, and his expression is as cool and disinterested as if he’s reading one of his many reports. Desperate for something, for  _anything_  to say, Vader sits up, reaching for Tarkin when Tarkin reaches out to grasp Vader’s hand and lower it to Vader’s chest.

“You must be in so much pain.” Tarkin says softly, reaching up with his free hand to cup Vader’s cheek. Vader can do little but breathe and think, focusing on Tarkin’s face as the governor offers a gentle smile.

As Tarkin releases him, Vader watches him move, waiting until Tarkin reclaims the small container and returns to Vader’s side. Without direction, Tarkin open the container and experimentally dips a finger into the ointment inside, nodding in comprehension.

“They’re burns, aren’t they. May I—” As Vader nods, relieved at Tarkin’s understanding, Tarkin reaches out to trace a line of ointment from Vader’s ear down to his collarbone. Even after all his preparation, Vader shivers at the sensation, and closes his eyes as Tarkin moves.

“Incredible. These must be years old, by now, but still…” With Vader’s silence, Tarkin speaks softly and slowly, using both hands to smooth the ointment across Vader’s upper chest. Though the ointment itself does much to alleviate the irritation of Vader’s skin, Vader can feel how Tarkin lingers on the dips and ridges of Vader’s physiognomy, fingers following Vader’s jawline, the sinews and bones of neck and shoulders, rubbing gently at the muscles that curve over Vader’s arms and chest.

“It must—come as a shock—” Vader is unsure why his breathing is so different. Usually, even without the respirator, he can sustain a few minutes without difficulty. But there is something about Tarkin’s proximity, Tarkin’s  _expectations_ , that lends a new tension to Vader’s thoughts. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Tarkin snaps, the edge in his voice enough to startle Vader. “You have  _nothing_  to apologize for.”

“But all this—”

“It is  _you_ , Lord Vader.” Tarkin leans over Vader, letting him lie back against the elevated portion of the table. “That is more than enough. I assure you.”

Vader takes a deep breath, closing his eyes again as Tarkin resumes his slow, methodical exploration. Every perceived barrier, every conceivable obstacle—Tarkin barely hesitates, massaging the ointment into Vader’s skin and moving around the cloth sling with little difficulty. Finally, as Tarkin moves down to the lower portion of Vader’s torso, he reaches out to touch Vader’s legs, making Vader start in surprise.

“I need a place to sit.” Tarkin says, as if it’s the most natural request in the world. Vader stares at him for a moment, unsure of what Tarkin’s asking, and Tarkin places a hand beneath Vader’s knee to lift his leg and prop it upright. Slowly, Vader compels his other leg to move, mirroring the position to leave a place on the table free of obstruction. Tarkin’s expression now is unclear to Vader—it is predatory yet satisfied, hyper-focused and yet content. Tarkin is careful to move incrementally, never too fast, but he manages to lift himself onto the table to thread his legs beneath Vader’s. Finally, pressed close against the back of Vader’s thighs, Tarkin hums softly, running both hands down the length of Vader’s thighs before resting them against the base of Vader’s torso.

“You are still so tall. So  _broad_. I think you underestimate the appeal.” Tarkin says, reclaiming the container of ointment to continue his work at Vader’s hips. Despite himself, Vader cannot help but push into the touch, surprised by how the lightest of movements is enough to rob him of breath.

“It must be poor reward for my prevarication so far.”

Tarkin hums again, grasping Vader’s hips before tracing the curve of one thigh with a finger. “Your prevarication is understandable. Not only do you have your own armor to contend with, the mechanical difficulties of disrobing, but it cannot be easy once you are free. Does it hurt? Now, like this?”

Vader shakes his head, shifting upwards to face Tarkin better. “The skin is—sensitive, yes. The nerves are often raw. And with so much of it scar tissue, it can be hard to predict what will respond and what won’t. But the pain dulls, after a time.”

Tarkin slows his movements, studying Vader’s body again. “Is it difficult? Being like this? Without the armor?”

Vader exhales slowly, moving the mouthpiece to take a breath of unfiltered air. “It is not a sight I am accustomed to. It—I don’t recognize it as easily.”

Tarkin nods, rising up to lean over Vader. Placing a hand against the table for support, Tarkin brings a hand to Vader’s chin, smiling as he leans close.

“The sight may be unfamiliar, but I assure you, it is not an unwelcome one.” Without waiting for Vader to respond, Tarkin presses his lips to Vader’s, moving after a moment to kiss down to Vader’s jaw and pulling back to return his attention to Vader’s hips. Vader can only shudder in Tarkin’s grip, scrambling for his temporary respirator to take a deep breath of oxygen.

As Tarkin follows the lines of Vader’s body, he feels the ridges beneath his fingers, the rough patches of scar tissue and burn marks still raw after years of recovery. Imperial medicine has come a long way, and Vader has most certainly undergone bacta treatment, but even with time and treatment, Vader is still heavily marked. He will never return to the appearance of Anakin Skywalker, never regain the flush of health or youth. Yet Tarkin cannot see this as a negative—it’s different, certainly, slightly unexpected, but to feel Vader’s responses overrides any hesitation Tarkin might have felt. He was not lying when he said he could see beauty in the construction of Vader’s sanctuary, and he has never lied about seeing beauty in Vader himself. With the armor or without, Vader is still a being of power.

All the same, Tarkin is surprised to hear how Vader seems to doubt this. True, there had been that moment of uncertainty, Vader’s instability after exiting the smaller chamber. Tarkin has known others with droid limbs, the prosthetics of repaired limbs or fingers. For most, the difference is unnoticeable, invisible in daily life, and he hadn’t expected Vader to struggle so much with his own. But now that Vader is naked—as close to naked as he can be, at least—Tarkin can begin to understand how fluid and unclear the boundaries between Vader’s body and Vader’s armor can be. Vader is the face of the Empire, the shadow of threat lurking behind the Emperor’s throne, but he cannot be that threat if he is left open to the air like this. Vader, the Emperor’s watchdog, only exists with his armor; this Vader, the man inside that shell, is Tarkin’s alone in this moment.

As Tarkin traces the narrowing of Vader’s hips, sensing the abdominal muscles that lie beneath the skin, he feels something brush against his forearm, and Tarkin brings both hands to the junction of Vader’s legs. Unable to resist a sharp grin, Tarkin glances up to study Vader’s reaction, watching as the taller man tenses against the table.

“Be careful.” Vader tries to sit up, bracing against the table, and Tarkin grips Vader’s thighs to stabilize him.

“Shh.” Tarkin soothes, pressing his thumbs into the inner flesh of Vader’s thighs before reaching up to reclaim the container of ointment. As he grasps Vader’s hip again, he can feel the renewed tension, Vader’s shift in posture as he tries to adjust to the new sensation. “Vader, really. Let me do this.”

Vader tilts his head up, pressing the respirator to his mouth as he gasps. “Be  _careful_.”

“Always.” Tarkin shushes him again, tearing his attention from Vader’s face to the rising concern at Vader’s groin. The skin is no different from the other areas of Vader’s body—scarred, yes, but not entirely damaged, and it is clear that the nerves are still perfectly functional. With a portion of ointment on his fingers, Tarkin reaches forward to coat the area around the base of Vader’s penis, humming to himself as he smooths the skin inch by inch.

“Does it hurt?” Tarkin asks, glancing up for Vader’s reaction before moving his fingers up the shaft. Vader’s response is muted by his respirator, but he manages to shake his head, breathing shortly before pulling the respirator away again.

“Wilhuff—”

“ _Breathe_ , Vader.” Tarkin waits for Vader to replace the mouthpiece before continuing, keeping one hand on Vader’s hip as he begins to stroke the full length of Vader’s erection. The tiny twitches, the small jerks of Vader’s body, confirm for Tarkin the nature of Vader’s response, but when Vader groans aloud into the mouthpiece, Tarkin closes his eyes to relish the sound.

“It’s no more than you’ve done for me. Just remember that.”

“It is so  _much_ , Wilhuff, so much—” Vader whispers into his mouthpiece, garbling the words into a single breath. “ _Please_.”

“Slower? Or faster?” Tarkin hesitates, waiting until Vader calms himself and manages to compose a sentence.

“Slow. Still slow. Always—” Vader pushes against the table, rising fully into a sitting position, and Tarkin pulls his hands away to let Vader study their positioning. It is certainly a convoluted scenario, with Vader’s legs partially wrapped around Tarkin’s waist and Tarkin straddling the table, but as Vader recovers his senses, he reaches out to grasp at Tarkin’s tunic.

“I’m sorry.”

“ _Stop_.” Tarkin reaches down, gripping Vader’s hand before prying it off his tunic. With the same careful consideration, he lifts the hand to his lips, kissing the ridge of Vader’s knuckles before nodding.

“It’s—It’s been a long time, Wilhuff.” Vader takes a breath, readjusting his mouthpiece with his free hand. “After so much preparation, I can’t guarantee—”

“No need to rush into things.” Tarkin says, glancing down at himself. “Here.”

As Tarkin releases Vader’s hand, Vader sits back, watching Tarkin reach up to unfasten the hidden connectors at the top of his tunic. In contrast to Tarkin’s earlier steady slowness, his movements now are quick and economical, allowing him to dispose of the tunic and undershirt before leaning towards Vader. Vader is yet again distracted, reaching up to grasp Tarkin’s shoulder as Tarkin presses close, and Vader shudders as Tarkin presses light, feathery kisses along the side of his mouthpiece.

“Perhaps words alone aren’t enough to convince you.” Tarkin speaks softly, pressing a hand against the table beside Vader’s head to hold himself in place. Vader can only close his eyes, focusing on Tarkin’s light touches, and it isn’t until Tarkin inhales sharply that Vader jumps to attention. Though focused on Vader, Tarkin has taken the opportunity of his position to push away his trousers and underpants, freeing his own erection to rub his thumb against the tip. “This is  _your_  doing, Vader.”

Vader squirms beneath Tarkin, adjusting his hips to better align himself with Tarkin. “You may return your attention to me, Wilhuff.”

Tarkin laughs softly, pushing himself up to sit back and consider Vader once more. In the light, Tarkin’s scars are only faintly visible, hidden streaks and puckered star shapes that remain hidden beneath the layers of uniform. Vader exhales shakily, his free hand clenching and releasing almost involuntarily, but even as Tarkin returns one hand to the junction of their bodies, he reaches for Vader’s hand to slip his other hand into Vader’s grip.

“I would change nothing. Nothing about you, nothing about this. Nothing.” Tarkin repeats, keeping still even as Vader pushes gently against him. “You know this.”

Vader tugs at Tarkin’s hand, pressing his thumb against the pads of Tarkin’s palm. “You are far too good at this.”

“Preparation and time. That’s all it is.” Tarkin hums, settling into a rhythm as Vader tenses against the table.

“ _Wilhuff_.”

Tarkin says nothing, conversation fading as he closes his eyes. Though lacking words, their interaction is not entirely silent as Vader groans into his mouthpiece, the tubing and plastic barely muffling the sound. Vader develops for them a liturgy, his lips moving even when he finds nothing to say, and it is finally a simple repetition of Tarkin’s name that he whispers as he arches back.

For Vader, the sensation is nearly overwhelming. No longer does he have the comfort of the bacta tank, the security of isolation. He cannot predict Tarkin’s movements, Tarkin’s  _skill_ in tracing the lightest of touches against Vader’s skin, and the continued stimulation even as Vader’s hips jerk involuntarily makes him gasp. Tarkin draws from him a throaty, needy exhortation, half a desperate plea and half a grateful accomplishment, and Vader can’t be entirely sure what Tarkin does as Vader closes his eyes. There are hands, his hands, Tarkin’s hands, returning to places on his body, and even the nerves on fire with stimulation are glad for the attention. Vader doubts he can ever catch his breath, even with the mouthpiece, and he clings to the mouthpiece as he hisses and moans and  _breathes_  Tarkin’s name over and over.

The press of lips to his cheek returns Vader to himself, gradually lowering him from the intensity of orgasm, and he raises his free hand to find Tarkin bowed over him once more. Tarkin, for his part, is silent, moving in tiny increments to trace the ridge of cheekbone beneath Vader’s skin with his lips, and Vader keeps still in order to let Tarkin move.

He cannot tell how long it takes—it may be a few seconds, or it may be the expanse of minutes—but Tarkin has his own tells. Though hidden from Vader by the length of Tarkin’s body, the stuttered motion of release is still tangible, and Vader tilts his head back to let Tarkin press his face against Vader’s neck. Tarkin does not cry out, or even whisper to himself, but his sudden needy burrowing against Vader’s skin is more than enough. They remain there, held in place by Tarkin’s positioning and pressure, and finally Tarkin pulls away just enough to kiss the shell of Vader’s ear and sit up.

“ _Well_.” Tarkin starts to speak, but finds no way to continue. Vader merely smiles as he follows Tarkin upwards, reaching to grasp Tarkin’s hand.

“Worth the effort, at least.”

“ _Yes_. It was that.” Tarkin exhales slowly, nodding as he rests a hand against Vader’s leg again. “And you’re—does anything need attention?”

“I’ll need the tank.” Vader nods to the corner of the room, glancing down at himself to get his bearings. His earlier concerns seem so miniscule, so meaningless—Tarkin has seen him,  _all_  of him, and was still eager to touch him. The weight of Tarkin’s hand is amplified, exacerbated by the sensitivity of Vader’s bare skin, and Vader pulls away his mouthpiece before pulling Tarkin to him for a proper kiss.

Tarkin smiles against Vader’s lips, edging backwards to swing a leg over the side of the table and slip to the floor. Vader’s own dismount is slower, more gradual, but this time it is easier for him to stand as he stretches to his full height. Tarkin is already there, placing a hand to Vader’s chest, but Vader shakes his head once as he returns the mouthpiece to his face.

“There’s a meeting room, off the hallway we came through. It might be more comfortable to wait in there—there’s a terminal to access updates.”

Tarkin adopts a wry smile, studying Vader with amusement. “You’re serious.”

“My time in the tank will not be quick, Wilhuff, and you may want to make the waiting productive.”

Tarkin laughs shortly, lowering his hand again. “Should I get Vaneé?”

“He is not needed here.” Vader nods, glancing back to the tank. “I can summon him if he is.”

Tarkin is quiet, thinking to himself, then at long last he takes a step back to turn back to the table. Vader watches him reclaim the container of ointment, replacing it beneath the table, then disappear around the other side to fetch his tunic and shirt from the floor. The simple movement makes Vader smile, the light highlighting Tarkin’s form in elegant simplicity, and Vader finally turns back to make the short walk to the bacta tank. As he steps inside, informing the monitor’s droid brain of his instrument changes, he watches through the glass as Tarkin dresses himself beside the low table.

The image is striking: Tarkin, his uniform made a soft gray by the light, the only note of human skin tone in the entire room. Everything else is silver or black, a testament to the harshness of this place, and yet as Tarkin fastens the top layer of his tunic, he faces Vader with a smile. He sees nothing out of the ordinary—or if he does, then he does not see it as a negative—with Vader or this place. Tarkin has found comfort here,  _brought_  comfort here, and the notion makes Vader’s chest tighten dangerously. He is fortunate that the bacta begins to fill the tank quickly enough; he is required to close his eyes, focusing on the sensation of the liquid surrounding him as it soothes the itch and ache in his skin. He can relax fully, sending his attention throughout his body more properly, and relish the extent of his ability.

And when the cycle finishes, Tarkin will be waiting. Tarkin, with his knowledge and his ease and his gentle fingers and soft lips.

It is rare that Vader looks forward so fervently to the end of a bacta tank cycle.

**Author's Note:**

> Starbroken, this is all your fault. ALL YOUR FAULT.


End file.
